


Thaw

by linguamortua



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cornelius Hickey Is His Own Warning, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Journalism, M/M, Mutual Pining, The Real Scam Tent Is Academia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: Adventure novelist James Fitzjames is richer and more successful than Francis Crozier will ever be, and he got there by writing total, unscientific dreck. Journalists in the literature field frequently ask Fitzjames his opinions about current issues in the Arctic. His answers are as insufferable as they are inaccurate. They met at a party once and Fitzjames snubbed him. They are now, as far as Francis is concerned, mortal enemies.Francis Crozier is a miserable, heavy-drinking journo who belabors moral points in every one of his turgid, sub-Nat Geo articles. He seems to think that spending a few weeks of the year in the north makes him an authority on all things northern. Despite his firm stance on climate change, he’s always flying here and there to cover a story. They met at a party once and Crozier drunkenly heckled James. James is applying the grey rock technique.Cornelius Hickey is a postdoc who’s about to put together an incredible, incendiary keynote panel for his first annual Symposium for Polar and Northern Writing. Thrown together in the shared misery of this academic symposium in a snowstorm, Francis and James must traverse the most treacherous and deadly territory of all—their feelings.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [embroidersthetruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroidersthetruth/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I combined two of your prompts into Whatever The Heck Has Happened Here - hope you enjoy it!

‘How about the sixth? Meteorology says there’s a likely window on the sixth.’

‘Sixth is no good. Pilot says he can do any day after the twelfth.’

‘The twelfth? Has he heard that news travels fast? That I’m trying to be there while it’s still, in fact, news?’

‘Okay, Francis, I know, and I’m trying to make this work. Stop barking.’

‘Sorry. It’s just—’ Francis unbent himself from his osteopathically-inadvisable hunch over Sophia’s shoulder. Sophia was inarguably the best coordinator in London, possibly also in the world. If there was any way of getting into Ryrkaypiy in the next week, she would figure it out.

He sat down on his desk, jammed up against the filing cabinets and the window, and pulled out his cigarettes.

‘Open the window,’ Sophia told him without looking. He opened the window.

‘I am quitting, you know,’ he said to her back.

‘Mmm. Check your email, by the way. You’ve got a speaking request for a thing.’

‘What kind of a thing?’

‘Check your email.’

Francis checked his email. Inside the office, Sophia’s word was law. He scrolled past dozens of unread messages before landing on _Subject: Invitation to join keynote panel_ from Hickey, C. Hickey, C was unfortunately named Cornelius. He was running a conference in London in two months’ time.

‘Am I available in London in two months’ time?’ Francis asked.

‘Check your calendar,’ Sophia told him reflexively.

‘Yes dear,’ Francis said, thinking miserably about Sophia’s well-spoken, well-dressed, well-respected husband and hating the man.

* * *

‘It’s called the Symposium for Polar and Northern Writing? They want you to participate in a keynote panel.’

‘Never heard of it. Where is it?’

‘London. Do you want me to RSVP?’

‘Say yes, there’s a darling. Unless it conflicts with anything more interesting, in which case say no.’

‘Oh, you are terrible, James! Pick something and stick to it, won’t you?’

‘Pick something for me, Lindy— _you_ know what I like.’

* * *

Hickey marched northwards past Birkbeck College, Harry fluttering along nervously in his wake. That was nothing new; Harry fluttered, he was nervous, it was who he was as a person. This seemed like a strange personality trait for a man earnestly attempting to become a medical doctor. Today he fluttered particularly, because Hickey was trying to persuade him to do something very slightly out of his comfort zone. As a friend.

‘Speaking as a friend,’ he said over his shoulder to Harry, ‘it would be good for your CV.’

‘My CV is—well, it’s—well, medical school is very—I mean, it’s not so much the publishing as the—do you really think?’

‘I do really think,’ said Hickey, crossing the road illegally and dragging Harry with him. ‘And you love Fitzjames. The derring-do, and all that.’

‘I do!’ Harry said, lighting up. He was finally walking level with Hickey. ‘I mean, gosh, I can’t tell you the number of hours I spent reading the Logan Eaves novels in my teens.’ He stopped, worried again. Hickey collected him by the elbow and moved him along. ‘It’s only, what contribution could I even make? I don’t study literature.’

‘It’s an _interdisciplinary_ conference,’ Hickey said mechanically, covering multitudes of his sins with that highly elastic concept. Already he was slotting Harry onto a panel with the woman who studied the aesthetics of frostbite, and the metaphysics guy from Dublin.

He steered left, towards the bland little student coffee shop nestled in the corner of the engineering building.

‘Do you want coffee?’ he asked Harry.

‘Not really, but—’

‘He’ll have a vanilla latte,’ Hickey ordered. Harry had strong feelings about self-medicating with anything, including caffeine, but was easily swayed by vanilla and a little sprinkling of cinnamon on top.

‘When you get right down to it, it’s not as though the caffeine content is _significant_ ,’ argued Harry to the dispenser of little sugar packets as he stirred the cinnamon in. And then, ‘The problem is, what if I _meet_ him?’

‘Wouldn’t that be a plus?’ Hickey asked.

‘Oh _dear_ ,’ was Harry’s only response. All the same, Hickey knew that Harry would do it.

* * *

‘Fitzjames is attending? _James Fitzjames_ is attending this conference, or symposium, or whatever it is?’

‘Yes,’ Sophia said, typing away quickly and calmly as always. ‘They published the schedule today.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Francis dourly. ‘Now I’ll have to spend the whole day dodging the idiot. Hopefully I’ll be able to present and then duck out before we—’

‘He’s on the same panel as you.’

‘Oh, fuck _off_.’

‘He’s presenting on his latest book.’

‘That’s not a presentation, that’s a bloody advertisement!’ Francis said, in a tone of voice that could be construed as shouting.

‘There’s no need to shout, Francis.’

‘Sorry. Don’t you think it makes a mockery of the concept of peer review?’

‘Well, your presentation wasn’t peer reviewed, either,’ Sophia said, supremely reasonably. She stretched over to turn on the printer. ‘It’ll be fine. Give your paper, answer the questions, have a sandwich at the lunch.’

‘You’re being so reasonable,’ said Francis. ‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘One of us has to be. If you’re going to smoke, _open the window._ ’

* * *

The Dublin to London flight was not short enough not to be boring, but was long enough that it was impossible for Francis to nap or work. He stared out the window at Ireland’s patchwork of green, and then at the grey water. It was miserable, and there was talk of snow that day. Going back to London always produced in him a kind of melancholy. London had been his home in his twenties, as a misfit Irish boy who wanted desperately to be like the erudite, upper-middle class young men who shared his university lectures, and sometimes his bed. He had started his career there, too, nestled among the publications and editors who set the standard for the field.

Then the inevitable souring; the bad break-up, the assistant editor job with the fishhook concealed in the bait, the old abrasive personality getting him into hot water. The renewed love of Ireland in all her exasperating complexity. Francis had moved back to Dublin, taken the career hit, rebuilt, rarely regretted it.

Except on trips to London.

The feeling dogged him through the airport and onto a train, but by the time he changed to the Tube at London Bridge some of the energy was back in his step. He hopped off early in Fitzrovia, bought a ludicrously overpriced coffee, and walked over to Russell Square. As he walked past the smooth stateliness of the British Museum, he mentally rehearsed the opening of his talk.

 _There is sometimes a belief,_ he mouthed into his scarf, _that the polar night is silent. And that an Arctic landscape is sterile and bereft of life. No two beliefs could be further than the truth. I would like to talk you to today about…_

* * *

James stepped out of the black cab into a chill evening. Already it was dark and there was a vicious, biting wind picking up, pushing some rubbish along the road and flurrying the snowflakes in the air into whorls. He navigated over the drain and up onto the pavement. The conference organisers had picked one of those chain hotels, three stars, slow wi-fi and a desiccated breakfast buffet. James, who had just come from his winter digs in the south of France, wished that he’d asked Lindy to book him something better. Despite some uncharitable reviews of his personal attitude in the press, James earnestly tried not to act like a snob. And yet, the thought of a fan meeting him at the breakfast table over reconstituted dried egg and bacon that looked like it came from an antique naval vessel decidedly did not appeal to his sense of dignity.

He checked in, wishing he’d requested that they put him under one of his travel names.

‘Oh my gosh— _the_ James Fitzjames? I actually love your books, it’s so crazy that you’re actually here.’

‘Is it, actually?’ James said mildly to the receptionist, signing the back of his receipt as requested with a flourish for her and making a hasty escape to the lifts.

Room 402 was exactly as drab as he had imagined. He hung up his clothes and put his spongebag in the bathroom. His talk for tomorrow, about convincing worldbuilding in extreme climate settings, was still only half-done. It could wait. He was experienced in off-the-cuff speaking. And what were the odds that a bunch of academics would ask him anything that he couldn’t answer? The worst questions were those asking him about the minutiae of his plots and characters, which he could invariably never remember. He didn’t think there was much danger of that.

So James lay on the bed and scrolled through his phone to see if he could scare up someone for a decent dinner. After all, it was London. And what was the point of being in London, otherwise?

* * *

‘Welcome to the keynote panel for what I hope will be the first of many Symposia for Polar and Northern Writing. We’re all going to hear some fascinating talks today, on topics from the moral to the practical.’

The next morning, James sat in his chair on the auditorium stage, breathed deeply through his nose, and tried to ignore his hangover. He also tried to ignore the unpleasant presence of Francis Crozier who, he had just realised, was also on the keynote panel. From the title, his talk would be about how terribly wrong everyone else but him was about the Arctic. James was sure that the man was going to quote him unfavourably. He was braced for it.

The conference organiser was a ratty little man in serious need of a good stylist. James supposed that he was reacting to having been named _Cornelius Hickey_ by playing entirely to type as a Victorian penny dreadful villain. There was something decidedly sinister about the man. James made a mental note of him. He’d be a terrific evil scientist. The urge to take his pen and doodle a caricature of Hickey was almost overwhelming; but then, he didn’t look like the kind of fellow who’d take that well. The last thing James needed was another angry young man complaining about him on an internet blog.

At least, James thought as the speaker introduced him, he got to go first. He could keep it to a tight fifteen minutes, smile, pretend to listen to the others, field his share of the questions and call it a work day. Then he could leave early and take a little stroll along Jermyn Street.

Warmed by that pleasant notion James stood, greeted the auditorium and its three hundred-odd audience members, realised his microphone was attached to the table and not his lapel, and sat back down again. A minor setback. He started with the anecdote about the spearfisher and the unfortunately located child’s birthday party (the part with the balloons always broke the ice with a good chuckle) and soon a gratifying, attentive hush had fallen on proceedings. The audience laughed in all the right places and looked sombre and serious at all the thoughtful parts.

‘Thank you, James Fitzjames, for a very _illuminating_ talk,’ said Dr Hickey. James didn’t much like the man’s emphasis. He liked even less the effusive way Hickey introduced Francis Crozier.

Crozier did not make the same mistake James did. He stayed seated. He had brought speaking notes, which James frankly thought was a sign of nerves, or unpreparedness, or something equally annoying. Crozier began to speak, irritatingly, about misperceptions of the North in fiction. He was very comprehensive about it. He had subheadings. Three minutes in, James had an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. In his chair at the side of the stage, Hickey was on his phone, texting or, James suspected, tweeting in the symposium hashtag (which was printed prominently on their lanyards).

He checked the hashtag as surreptitiously as possible. It was not flattering.

‘For example, in the James Fitzjames novel _Despair On The Ice_ ,’ (and here Crozier gave James a mocking little bow), ‘the protagonist suggests that the emptiness of the landscape is somehow responsible for the low moral character of the villain who spends so much of his time there. An interesting assumption.’ Crozier smiled at James, showing all his teeth. ‘I try not to take personally that the villain is posing as a journalist.’

Hickey’s microphone buzzed momentarily as he spoke. ‘Wow, hope someone’s livetweeting this.’

The hashtag reloaded with another few tweets.

_Impending catfight at #SPNW2019! Go OFF @fcroziernorth!_

_Really interested in this critique of @fitzjj’s Eaves novels - Crozier pushing back on the way he totalises the North as hostile etc. #SPNW2019_

_love @fitzjj but definitely beach reads! hey @gibsonphd, when are we writing that paper about queer readings of logan eaves?? #spnw2019_

James had had years of practice keeping his face politely neutral in front of a crowd. He therefore managed to look neither irritated at Crozier’s slight, nor gratified that the man seemed to have read at least one of his books. Crozier’s scorn was at least broadly applied—from films to books and obscure productions of plays, he had an apparently encylopaedic knowledge of people who were wrong about the North. He had categorised them by type. In the end, Crozier’s presentation went slightly over time, much to the disgust of the third presenter. (Her talk, on futurism in Northern fiction, was highly conceptual. James understood about one word in four; the audience, he thought, might have recognised as many as half the words.)

‘Thank you _so much_ ,’ Hickey said, finally, just when James was in serious danger of becoming fidgety. ‘Wow. What amazing papers. Really, um, rich and fascinating. We’ve got about fifteen minutes for questions here. I’m sure you’ll all have some interesting responses to how these papers interacted with one another.’

Crozier fielded a question about one of his climate science projects. Then someone asked James an easy one about character development, which was really an excuse for the guy to talk about his own fiction writing endeavours. James gracefully deflected.

Hickey called on a tall, thin young woman with a pair of thin, wire-rimmed glasses and a serious frown. ‘Thanks for the talks. Really interesting. I’m with, um, the philosophy department. Can we discuss, um, the extent to which writing has an, um, moral imperative to seek truth, as opposed to, you know, providing entertainment—and that’s for all three of you, fiction or non-fiction?’

‘I think all good fiction has an element of truth in it,’ said James.

At exactly the same time, Crozier began, ‘Many of us would argue that truth and fiction are opposite concepts—’

‘Excuse me,’ James said politely as Crozier stopped and glared at him. He turned back to the bespectacled woman. ‘Certainly when I write, I try not to get bogged down in technical details, in favour of focussing on a wider theme, which—’

‘Yes, why bother with details?’ Crozier asked, just loudly enough to be picked up by his microphone.

‘The demands of a narrative, actually, make it important to—’

‘You’ve written the same book nine times,’ Crozier hissed at him, definitely too quietly for the mic.

‘Wow, uh,’ said the woman in the audience, ‘I didn’t realise this was going to get intense.’

‘No, this is great,’ said Hickey, a touch breathlessly. James watched the man from over the top of his glass of water, which he sipped to calm himself down before he said something unforgiveably rude to Crozier. Next to him, Crozier’s face was turned down to his notepad and he was writing. James was sure that it was the initial notes for some kind of vicious article about him; it seemed in character.

Hickey was soliciting further questions on the specific topic of truth in fiction when James felt a light touch against the side of his left hand. He glanced down; Crozier’s hand was moving away. He had deposited a small slip of paper under James’ fingers, quick as a pickpocket on the Underground. James moved his fingers aside to read it.

_I think this is a bear-baiting, Fitzjames._

James found a dry smile was on his lips. The turn of phrase amused him; besides, he could hear it in Crozier’s Irish brogue, which, appallingly, was growing on him the more he heard it. He turned the paper lengthways so that he could append his own little scribble.

_We only have to behave for another four minutes._

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crozier read it and nod. Crozier then launched into a lengthy and barely-relevant explanation of the complexities of seal hunting licenses, which ate up the remaining time. Was it James’ imagination, he wondered, or was the rattish little conference organiser looking disappointed?

* * *

By two o’clock, the novelty of London and of the conference generally had worn off for Francis. He sat in the back of a small, stuffy room, not listening while a mutton-chopped young man talked on about something medical. If he rested his laptop on his knees and typed quietly, he thought, he might just about get the edits on his latest article actioned by the end of the work day. Already he had received two emails from Sophia that contained the phrase, ‘just a quick reminder.’

Also, by looking at his laptop he was able to ignore, in front of him, James Fitzjames working on his own laptop. Francis could read the screen over his shoulder. Two rows away was close enough to see that he was reading an email from someone called Lindy, subject line: your latest fan mail attachment. As Fitzjames opened it and flicked through the images, Francis watched the back of his neck go a little pink.

Not for the first time today, he wondered why the man was still here. He had responded with surprising tact to Francis’ implicit suggestion not to start a catfight at a symposium. There was some real subtlety to the man. Then again, he had seen Fitzjames sign at least three autographs today.

The door to his left opened and a young woman wearing a university lanyard came in and cleared her throat loudly. The speaker stumbled to a halt, laser pointer in hand.

‘Uhhh, hey, everyone. If I could just get everyone’s attention? Thanks. We’re hearing that public transport is severely disrupted by the snow and that services and flights out of all the airports are being cancelled. I know many attendees have left already and unfortunately for that reason we will be cancelling the last panel of the day. Thanks, folks. Take care.’

‘Oh, fuck _off_ ,’ said Francis under his breath. He desperately wanted a cigarette. He closed his laptop.

‘If anyone has any questions—’ began the speaker, desperately, but already people were packing up and retreating to the exit. Francis felt mildly sorry for the man, but not sorry enough to sit around. He slid his laptop into his satchel, slipped his phone into his inside jacket pocket and patted it reassuringly, just to make sure it was there. If he lost another phone, Sophia might acquire a ship specifically for the purpose of keel-hauling him.

At the door, he and Fitzjames came awkwardly abreast of one another.

‘After you,’ Francis offered.

Fitzjames grimaced. ‘No, after you,’ he said.

A brief, uncomfortable pause followed. Francis took the initiative, darting through the door and walking as quickly as he could towards the exit. Unfortunately, Fitzjames was tall and long-legged and kept pace with him easily. He kept pace with Fitzjames all the way down the street, through the almost-total whiteout. He didn’t even have the decency to stand between Francis and the wind, which was vicious and biting right through Francis’ layers.

At the corner, they stopped and briefly conferred on directions. Fitzjames was trying to tell him something about navigation, but Francis put his chin down into his coat and forged on to the hotel. The roads were practically empty. When they reached the hotel, it too was mostly dead.

‘They sent most of us home early,’ said the sad-eyed man at reception. ‘Except me, of course. And a couple of people in the kitchen. And the night porter. _We_ get to stay.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Francis said, meaning it. ‘I’ll be needing to do the same. Can I keep my room another night?’

‘Why not?’ said the receptionist. ‘It’s not like anyone else will be wanting it.’ With a few keystrokes, Francis was once again ensconced in his corner room on the fourth floor. He had packed his suitcase and it sat by the door; now he unpacked it all again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he checked his phone. Predictably, Sophia had messaged him to tell him that she understood the weather in London was dire and that she had taken the liberty of preemptively rebooking his flights. One of his editors had emailed to tell him that he would be receiving an intern in the new year, and e-introducing the boy. Francis looked him up on LinkedIn: a dark-eyed sparrow of a lad called Jopson. Francis raised his eyebrows: they got younger and younger, he thought nonsensically. And in his personal email, Tom Blanky sending him a link to a porn video and asking when the fuck he was going to drop by, or had his cock fallen off?

Francis closed the email hurriedly, lest something compromising show up on the hotel wifi. At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

‘Hullo,’ said Fitzjames awkwardly. He had dispensed with his jacket and tie and was down to his shirt. ‘Bit of a bore, this whole thing, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ Francis said slowly. They stared at each other stupidly for a moment. Fitzjames recovered first.

‘What a strange conference,’ he offered. ‘That Hickey fellow…’

‘Definitely a screw loose.’

‘So, are you…? Here?’

‘I appear to be.’

‘So am I, so am I.’ Fitzjames was slightly flushed. ‘I thought we might as well make the best of it and have a drink.’

‘Now you’re speaking my language,’ Francis told him. ‘Let me fetch my room key.’

* * *

They repaired to the bar. It was almost totally empty. In the corner, a man in a suit nursed a beer and watched Sky News on the muted TV. The bartender was scrolling his phone.

‘Can I?’ Fitzjames began awkwardly, gesturing to the bar.

‘A whiskey,’ Francis said. ‘No ice.’ His respect for Fitzjames grew incrementally as the man ordered a good single malt for Francis, and for himself a gin and tonic. They went to a table tucked half behind a pair of vending machines and sat.

‘It’s the worst luck,’ said Fitzjames, pulling a long face. ‘I was supposed to be flying down to Monaco this evening to visit friends.’

‘Nice friends,’ Francis observed.

‘Extremely nice—do you know the area?’

‘I do not.’ Thinking that was perhaps an abrupt answer for a man who had just bought him a drink, Francis expanded, ‘but I did once spend a summer holiday in a tent in Provence.’

‘In a tent!’ Fitzjames exclaimed. ‘You don’t say!’

‘I was eight years old. It was an exciting age to be in a tent.’

‘Of course.’ Fitzjames stirred his drink quite unnecessarily with the little green plastic wand, and sipped. Francis drank rather faster than did Fitzjames. He had to wait for the man to catch up; and then of course a decent period of time had to elapse until Francis could offer to buy the next round.

He came back to the table with a tray.

‘It seemed easier on the bartender to double up the order,’ he explained. Fitzjames looked nervous.

‘That’s rather a lot for a Wednesday evening,’ he said dubiously.

‘Did you have somewhere else to be?’

‘No, not at all.’

They drank.

‘I will say, Francis,’ said Fitzjames towards the end of his second drink, ‘I appreciated your—um—that is to say, we haven’t always been friendly, exactly, but today was—’

‘Not as awful as it could have been,’ Francis finished generously.

‘Right,’ said Fitzjames, too quickly. ‘I mean, we don’t have to _like_ each other to—get along.’

‘That would be ridiculous,’ Francis agreed. ‘We’re adults.’

He started on his next drink. He was conscious that he hadn’t eaten for several hours, and that he was drinking unusually fast even for him. And yet, Fitzjames seemed intent on matching him.

At length, the sad man in the suit left the bar, and the bartender gave up on any pretense of professionalism and turned the TV over to the football. He clicked the sound on, and Francis and Fitzjames drank steadily to the sound of West Ham getting conclusively hammered by Southampton.

‘Do you watch much football?’ Fitzjames articulated with the distinct care of the already-drunk.

‘More of a rugby man myself, Fitzjames.’

‘Do call me James, won’t you?’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘I feel like we’ve been bonded by this absolutely baffling experience, the least we can do is be on first name terms.’

Francis shrugged. ‘James, then.’ He pointed to Fitzjames’ glass. ‘Do you want another? Or shall I just fetch over a bottle of wine?’

‘If they have a decent pinot noir…’ Fitzjames suggested. ‘Perhaps I’ll just—’

He went over to the bar and came back moments later with a bottle and two wine glasses. Francis’ memory of the night, much later, seemed to fizzle out at about this point. He would recall the strange heat of the vending machines on his left cheek, and the precise margin by which Southampton had won the football. There would also be a hazy memory of Fitzjames’ leg pressed firmly into his inner thigh, and perhaps a long and rambling story—Fitzjames’ story, not his, about a university hazing that involved a sex toy.

And then, at some point, the night had taken a strange turn. It must have done, because Francis knew that by the time the football was over and the bartender had announced he was leaving, Francis had started, appallingly, to _like James Fitzjames._

‘Damn,’ he said, finishing his wine. He very carefully placed the glass down right in the middle of the paper coaster. ‘I think I’m going have to take you to bed.’

* * *

‘Thanks,’ James said diffidently as he tucked his shirt in many, many hours later. Despite the fact that the man had just spent over twenty minutes in the bathroom, his hair was not quite lying flat, and he didn’t meet Francis’ eye. Francis found it strangely disarming. ‘For the company.’

Francis smiled into his undershirt as he pulled it on over his head. What a stilted, English formalism, to call sex ‘company’. Or maybe James really was that lonely.

‘Worse ways to spend a snowstorm,’ Francis said mildly.

‘Yes—if you’ve read my fourth book, there’s a chapter in there in which the hero is trapped in a research station with a polar bear during a snowstorm, and during the research for that book, I myself—’

‘Look,’ Francis interrupted, pulling back the curtain to reveal a muddy grey dawn. ‘The buses are running again.’ But that was unkind. He was feeling benevolent. James Fitzjames had, clearly, his good points. So he turned, and he smiled. ‘We could share a taxi to the airport,’ he said.

‘I’d like that,’ James said, his answering smile turning him boyish. ‘I’d like that very much.’


End file.
